HOW TO: Survive an Illegal Tour of San Pedro Prison, Bolivia

Once I arrived in La Paz, it became my sole mission to gain entry into San Pedro Prison; a prison that even the guards don’t enter. From a trip to the police station, to being scammed and giving up hope, to finding a second-wind, and finally getting in, this was and adventure I’ll never forgot (and highly recommend).

The inmates of San Pedro make money to stay alive. No, it’s not all drugs. In fact, it’s mostly baking bread, making children’s toys, and even running hardware stores (complete with hacksaws and power saws). Either way, I’ve never witnessed such a productive environment. It was a real eye-opener as far as prisons go, but also in terms of understanding rehabilitation.

Arriving in La Paz

Once in La Paz (Bolivia), every other touristic activity seemed bland in comparison to entering the notorious San Pedro Prison. As soon as I crossed into the city limits, it was final: I planned to do everything humanly possible to get in (and back out again). Why? I have no idea. Maybe it was the challenge, maybe it was the exclusivity, maybe it was that time of the month, you know, to give authority a run for its money. Either way, I had a mission and I was determined to succeed.

Take 1: The Scam

A group of us spent our entire Thursday trying to find a way into the prison. We were two Aussies, one Brit and a Belgian. We met a woman outside the prison in the morning who claimed to be the wife of an inmate. She asked us to meet her again at a church on the other side of town two hours later. We went there and she asked for copies of our passports and gave us a number to call another two hours later. The idea was to pose as her husband’s relatives, so the guards would allow us in. Clearly this sounded very dodgy, but the nature of the tour called for us to be a little more flexible than usual. We’d also heard that the tours had stopped since the release of the book, Marching Powder.

The note we were first given with a number to call didn't really settle our jitters

We waited, called the number (which belonged to a phone inside the prison), spoke to an inmate, and he asked us to meet another woman in 30 minutes, each with 300 Bolivianos (the local currency). It started to seem more dodgy than we were willing to accept. So we ditched this plan and decided to join a much larger group outside the prison an hour later.

The reference to Marching Powder is to a book written about the prison and the tours by an Australian law-graduate, Rusty Young. He spent 3 months in the prison to record and recount the story of Thomas McFadden, an English inmate who originally started the illegal prison tours. You can buy Marching Powder from Amazon or any good bookstore (you’re out of luck if you’re already in Bolivia though, it’s been banned of new re-prints).

An hour later, we became a group of 17, which in retrospect just seems ridiculous if we were to pose as relatives of an inmate. But then a short, stocky, somewhat charismatic African American guy, who claimed to be an inmate out on day-leave, promised to get the group in. He seemed quite convincing, but in hindsight, it all seemed too good to be true. He told us that entry normally cost 400 Bolivianos, but he could get us in for only 200 via the police station. We must have felt overly safe in numbers, and when we found the police would be involved we went along with it (yes, I know, not the smartest move).

This supposed inmate said we needed to pay 50 Bolivianos upfront to the police station to register our names. He told us to wait where we were, but picked the two biggest guys in our group, a ginger-haired Australian and a Bolivian tour leader, to accompany him to the cop shop. This gave us some comfort and consolation.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity, but finally saw the Australian and Bolivian walking towards us shaking their heads. The scam artist had paid off the cops to stop the other two from entering the police station, and exited the back door with the cash for the 17-large group.

We chalked it up as experience and weren’t too upset since it equated to only 7 or 8 dollars each. We all called it a day and headed back to the hostel. Most of the group resigned themselves to defeat, but a few of us knew we’d be back for more.

Take 2: A Little Wiser this Time

A few people at our hostel said that tourists could only get in on weekends. So we took a couple of days off and waited until Saturday. Lauren and I awoke especially early to beat the ‘rush’ and to get their first. We arrived at about 8:30am and did a single lap of the plaza adjacent to the prison. The plaza was under construction, so we couldn’t take a sly stroll through it, which is the common way to meet fixers that somehow get you in.

After the lap of the plaza, we decided to sit on the curb up the road from the main prison entrance. We hoped to meet another fixer who’d set us up with a call and eventually get us in that day. It was exhausting to think we’d be wasting another day, dealing with scam artists. We sat in the shade so it didn’t seem too obvious, but again, retrospect is wonderful, and we must have stood out like black sheep.

We were becoming quite jaded as time passed. Then suddenly, we noticed a burly Bolivian guy casually approaching. He muttered something way too quickly in Spanish and gestured towards the prison. He could have said, ‘if you don’t leave, we’ll put you in prison’, but we were delirious with nervous excitement and responded with something like, ‘Um, ah, yes, I mean si, oh, the prison, yes, um, si, Si, Siiii!” There was no waiting, there was no call, there was just ‘Vamos!’ And with that sharp, short word that could undeniably seal our fate, we followed Oscar hurriedly to the main prison entrance.

The side gate into the prison where inmates clawed at the bars to get messages in and out

At first I felt a sharp rush of adrenaline, but it very quickly turned to butterflies and then to anxiousness. I now know what people meant when they say, “You could cut the atmosphere with a knife”. But I didn’t want to think of knives or any other improvised prison weapon at this point. So with nothing but stolid conviction, I took a gasping breath, tensed my entire body, and continued directly into the prison’s dark, screeching, devilish depths.

The Admittance Process

We naively thought this whole process was completely ‘black ops’. You know, under the counter, off the books, behind closed doors, smoke and mirrors, 007 all the way. It turns out that it’s not. It’s just a nice money earner for everyone involved: the guards, the inmates, the prison bosses, even the scam artists. It was all very organised and process driven, which was a big surprise to us. So much in Bolivia is chaotic, but the corruption is refreshingly efficient.

As an aside, Bolivia is a gorgeous country and not nearly as demonic as its reputation. Coming over the border from Peru, where political propaganda covers every man-made structure, I was shellshocked by the jagged peaks and untouched landscapes. The people are generally very accommodating, and everything’s impossibly cheap, and the capital, La Paz, is unlike any other, especially at over 3,600m elevation. By far it was our favorite country in Latin America. So although I mention the corruption, Bolivia is by no means characterised by it, at least not more so than others.

Back to the prison…. We were ushered into a small room with a short ceiling. A very matter-of-fact female prison guard asked us to write our names and passport numbers into the visitor register, and then she tattooed us using permanent marker. Oscar, the fixer, asked for the 400 Bolivianos and even checked each note to see if it were counterfeit (not uncommon in South America).

Our prison tattoos to mark us differently than the inmates. You know, in case we wanted to leave

It couldn’t get any crazier. We were in a prison, paying off guards to illegally let us in, and now they were making sure we weren’t bribing them with counterfeit notes. What if they found a counterfeit note? Would they throw us into ‘gen-pop’ and throw away the key? But before we could rationalise the absurdity of it all, we were rushed out of the room and towards the main gate.

The main gate towers above you at almost 3 storeys high. Inmates are squeezed against the bars screaming about whatever’s bothering them. And when a couple of tourists approach, it only gets louder, more sinister, and, well, a little unnerving. But this wasn’t the time for introspection; the doors opened, the fixer nudged us through, and we were suddenly in, now on the wrong side of the gate. I looked around, but no, it wasn’t a dream, we were in Bolivia’s largest prison where the inmates really do rule the roost. Woo hoo!

Our Tour Guide

A short man with a bald head greeted us with a smile the size of a watermelon. The first thing I noticed were all of his teeth were ground down to stumps that barely pierced his gums. The second thing I noticed was his competent English. What a godsend! If you’ve ever been in a dicey situation and couldn’t communicate, then you’ll understand the relief. He was accompanied by another younger guy, who would be our bodyguard (we found out later he was serving a full 30 year term).

With the efficiency of the Tokyo train system, our tour guide whipped us through the mêlée at the front gate and into the first division (section) of the prison. Not just any prison, but San Pedro, the one we’d been looking forward to for so long. The positive side finally dawned on me… We were in!

It’s worth mentioning I’m not disclosing the names of people for the protection of everyone and the ‘tours’ themselves. If you need more info, please leave a comment.

We followed him through the main courtyard, up a long set of shaky stairs, and into a large musty room. The door closed abruptly behind us. We were asked to sit, while a group of tall dark men gazed at us. My earlier anxiousness had now been replaced by pure terror, but I calmed myself as the men looked away and continued with their earlier work. We were asked to record our names again on a sheet of paper, then our guide hurried us out with serious intent.

The Prison

For the next 2 or 3 hours (not exactly sure; I purposely left my shiny Swiss timepiece at the hostel), we explored each and every crevice of the prison with our trusty toothless guide. He was admittedly a much better guide than most we’d encountered on the ‘outside’. He spoke of the history, but he didn’t over do it. He asked if we were feeling safe, but again, he didn’t over do it. We could tell he’d intensely observed the responses and reactions of his previous ‘customers’ to build a tour that was not too heavy, not too light, but just right.

Here’s an example of what we learned about San Pedro:

The prison has 8 divisions (like suburbs, some are much nicer than others)

The life-time entry fee for an inmate is 500 Bolivianos (almost the same as our half-day fee)

The inmates are put in a particular division according to the day of the week

Inmates may choose to change divisions by paying another fee

Inmates who can’t pay the entry fee live in squalid and cramped dormitories

They can buy an upgraded cell for anywhere from US$200 to $15,000

The inmate initiation ritual is to dive into the freezing pool at 3am on the opening of Carnivale

Rapists and child molesters used to be drowned, tortured and killed in the pool; now they are semi-segregated and all work in the kitchen, which isn’t segregated

The government only funds basic food; inmates have to earn money to survive

Inmates run shops, build products and provide prison services to generate income

Whole families live inside the prison with the inmate they’re related to

16 prisoners once dug their way out, but that cell has since been concreted in

The most fascinating aspect of the prison is the economy. Everyone works to generate income, and from our observation, the prison economy is well-oiled and thriving. The second most fascinating aspect is that family members are allowed to live in the prison with the inmates, arguably because they can’t afford to live elsewhere with the money-earner ‘inside’.

One of the nicer divisions in the prison, Palmar, with stores and stalls everywhere to earn a living

The income-generating activities in the prison were about as diverse as the entire country. Men built wooden christmas toys, baked bread, operated restaurants, laundered clothes, serviced the saunas (yes, saunas they built themselves), relayed messages (these guys were called taxis), worked as prison security, ran illegal English-speaking tours and much more.

The ‘taxis’ earned 1 Boliviano ($0.12) per message they relayed. While the security guards all had 30+ year terms, as a prerequisite to their appointment. Otherwise, every square inch of the prison seemed productive. Painted furniture dried on the rooftops, children’s toys baked on the gables, and everyone seemed to move with purpose. There was even a hardware store that sold hacksaws and other tools… yes, within the prison!

The most shocking fact was about the food. Our guide seemed convinced that the authorities drugged the food on a daily basis to reduce the incidence of uprisings and violence. He said this was one of his biggest fears, because no one inside knew the long-term effects of the drugs. He looked forward to his release to spend time with his family, but he feared he’d have a noticeably diminished mental capacity by the time he got out.

What about Rehabilitation?

Around the world, most countries think the best way to rehabilitate is to give inmates everything for free (food, bedding, learning materials, etc.), provide clean and stable accommodation, and then keep inmates only with people of a similar ilk. So basically they don’t have to provide for themselves at all and the only things they grow to know are other criminals and their crimes. Sounds like the Big Brother television series on steroids, and we all know what happens after only a couple of days in those conditions.

Imagine our shock to stand there, in this crazy place Bolivia calls a prison, and think to ourselves, ‘Wow, this place looks like it could actually rehabilitate someone.’ Everyone has to work hard and think hard for their survival. But it wasn’t just survival. Each division was run like a separate government, with elected leaders, charging taxes and providing for the greater population. The efficiency of it all afforded a relatively respectable standard of living and even real luxuries, like Finnish saunas.

Don’t get me wrong, crime was still apparent throughout the prison. Every now and then we’d see someone walking along dazed and confused, obviously as high as a kite. But that contingent seemed a very small minority. Either way, there was no doubt San Pedro works on opposing principles to prisons in the West. Inmates have to provide for themselves, for their division, for their families and they are surrounded by many non-criminals. It seemed a more intelligent method of rehabilitation, and punishment for that matter, since they had to provide for themselves, and survival was tenuous for this very reason, especially in Bolivia.

I’m not suggesting San Pedro is the perfect answer, but it certainly seemed more effective than other prisons. Can you imagine taking the guards out of a Western prison and letting tourists in?

The Inmates

Our guide took us through 7 of the 8 divisions. Up rickety stairs, through tight corridors, peeping into many different cells, and crossing crowded courtyards. We bumped into many different inmates:

We walked deep into the dark sweltering kitchen where all the rapists worked; they all seemed to study Lauren with unbridled evil (suffice to say, she wasn’t a fan and left quickly)

We glimpsed into the cell of the president of the prison, who used to be the president of Bolivia’s largest bank before he swindled retirees out of their pension savings

We walked down the dark hall to the old cell of Bolivia’s current Vice President, who was imprisoned for terrorism in Peru (odd that he’s now VP of a country)

We hurried through a division vs. division soccer game, replete with team jerseys and what seemed like professional soccer boots

We went inside a carpentry where some inmates were carving out Victorian-style cabinets and chairs to sell on the outside

We walked past some big fellas pumping iron in one of the gyms (10 bolivianos for the monthly membership is tough to beat)

We were laughed at by one group of ‘coked-out’ guys, one who asked Lauren, ‘cuánto dinero’ (how much money?)

We were permitted into the sauna in one division by a tall menacing Dominican guy (probably a softy on the inside) and were surprised that it looked like the Hilton

We had a door slammed on us by a group of inmates still celebrating from the night before

One of the more interesting encounters was a younger inmate who followed us around for the first 10 minutes and then confronted us with portraits he drew. They were pretty good for ‘on-the-run’ drawings and we bought them without question as important keepsakes. I remember while Lauren was looking through her purse for the 10 Bolivianos to pay him, our guide looked extremely nervous and then said, ‘I don’t want you to buy anything else.’ This clearly wasn’t the place for counting money in public.

Our prison portraits. Lauren wasn't very happy with her big nose

There was a new Russian inmate who couldn’t speak English or Spanish. Our guide explained that he was in real trouble. Without the ability to communicate, he’d find it very difficult to earn money or cooperate with the division. We suggested he could make money as a tour guide for Russian tourists, but our guide said he’d never seen any Russians on any of the prison tours (maybe they know better).

Moving through and excusing ourselves constantly, it felt like an entire day passed. I guess time doesn’t fly when you’re constantly on edge about your safety. After what seemed like an eternity (albeit a thrilling eternity), we were ushered into another small room; again, the door closed quickly behind us. We all sat around a small table: the guide, the bodyguard and the two of us. Our guide apologised in advance for what he was about to ask and he suggested we wouldn’t like it. That got me a little worried again.

The Proposition

Our guide explained that he’d spent most of his life in jail; he even spent time in a prison in New York State. I nervously asked why, and he said it was all drug related. He again mentioned that he had an uncomfortable question, and explained that the president of the prison said all guides must ask this. Then, with his head bowed and eyes diverted, he asked,

‘Would you like to buy the very best cocaine in Bolivia’. I chuckled with relief and said, ‘No, thanks, I mean, Gracias, but… no’. He looked very relieved.

A glorious sight for some, but not for us

I could see deep regret in our guide. Regret that he’d lived his life that way (dealing drugs) and relief that his current predicament didn’t have to create more victims. He spoke about his family and his plans to take them to Spain when he got out in less than 12 months. We told him our plans to travel to India, and suddenly his eyes lit up. He told us that he always dreamed of visiting two countries: India and Mongolia. He lit up even further when we told him of our plans to trek across Mongolia’s Gobi Desert straight after spending a few months in India.

This is the very definition of living vicariously, because unlike most, he knew India and Mongolia would only ever be in his dreams. I suggested it could be otherwise, but he was happy to live in our shoes for this moment. And we were happy we could share our travel aspirations so intimately.

The Wrap-Up

The four of us glanced at each other for one last time and without a word, we all acknowledged the tour had come to an end. That meant it was time for the obligatory tip.

As we offered the bodyguard the first tip, our guide stopped us in our tracks and the bodyguard raised his hands, as if to say, ‘I’m not touching that money’. The guide quickly followed with, ‘Sorry, but we can’t accept any tips personally, only as a division.’ He explained it had to be transparent; nothing under the table. So we handed a relatively large tip directly to the guide and he made sure to keep his hands high above the table as a sign of transparency to us and the bodyguard.

As we approached the main gate from the inside, the guide ran up the stairs to bring the head of the division down. The division leader had a strong business-like demeanor. He looked me straight in the eyes and shook my hand with an earnest look of gratitude. The guide told me to tell him exactly how much we’d given as a tip, again for transparency. I said the number in English and repeated it in Spanish. And with that, we were whisked out, past the guards, and back into (what we like to call) freedom.

Looking Back

We walked about 10 metres before quickly glancing at each other with cheeky smiles. We walked another 15 metres before we looked back at the prison gate to etch that last moment in memory. And as we rounded the corner, we stopped for a quick high 5.

Our friends have asked what we thought about the ethics of it all. Not the prison system itself, but the ethics of us propagating corruption, financially supporting criminals and essentially breaking the law. I’m still unsure.

The selfish answer is that it was a great learning experience and an amazing travel experience. I hope that I can put it all to positive use at some point, but clearly can’t promise that. I certainly don’t want to trivialise crime, criminals and prison, but I saw something quite special in San Pedro. Something ultimately positive. So really, I don’t feel too bad about it. I just can’t explain exactly why.

Fantastic piece! Up until about 15 minutes ago I had not heard of the prison or Marching Powder, but I got to say, I am definitely hooked now. Great reporting and storytelling! After taking the tour and going through the admittance process, do you still think the “fixer” is a necessary piece? Or, is it possible to just walk in through the main entrance, register as a visitor and then pickup a tour guide?

I wouldn’t want to go there myself, but I found reading about your experience fascinating. It is its own little microcosm, isn’t it? I found myself agreeing with you as I was reading this, that it’s a somewhat better system to force prisoners to earn their keep, so to speak, than to just throw them in prison and hand them everything the way we do. By having to start their own businesses, they’re learning entrepreneurial skills that many in the outside world don’t ever learn….skills that will hopefully help them earn an honest living if and when they’re ever released from prison.

Wow, this is quite an interesting travel experience. It’s amazing to see just how organized it was once you finally got in- and the fact that there is transparency in tipping! I’m glad for your sake that you finally got in, I’m sure it’s something you won’t forget.

Thanks for the comment Laura; definitely worth a visit if you find yourself in Bolivia. You’ll be glad to hear Lauren and I have committed to running a marathon somewhere are the globe this year… as a new year’s resolution. :)

Ah, I’m so excited for y’all!! Let me know which one you decide to run. IndefiniteBackpacking.com is also running a marathon. I’m inspired to gear up for another year of races after hearing that others are doing it :)

If you were to get deported, I’d say doing it trying to sneak inside a prison in Bolivia would be a unique way of doing it.

I’d still like to do it, but for anyone thinking there can’t be any consequences…

MW
March 12th, 2015 at 03:21

I was in La Paz last month (Feb 2014) and was told by a number of people not to even think of going in there now. Apparently the attitude of the authorities to the tourist visits has changed a lot and you will get yourself into trouble with them. We got waved away with angry gestures when we were just taking photos in the square outside

MW
March 12th, 2015 at 03:22

That’s right, its 2015 now, brain still hasn’t settled back into normal life yet

Wow. That is an amazing story, given little knowledge of systems outside Australia I could not have conceived a place like this. Where there are families, trade, work and a full blown economy.

It is fascinating that a place designed to harbour criminals could build such an ingrained social structure, to have it’s own distinct way of running itself. It sounds like a surprisingly well-oiled machine. Although I have never considered such a thing myself, I must admit it would be fascinating.

I found your piece fascinating. I am convinced that the current ‘western’ penal system is ineffective, if not counter productive and I am very intrigued to learn more about this ‘alternative’ system. I plan on travelling through central and south america soon and would appreciate any information/tips you have on going on a similar adventure when I am down there. my email is baskin_robin689@hotmail.com

Hi Robin, the best way to get into the prison is to visit at about 8:45am on a weekend morning. Take a stroll around the block and then plan yourself somewhere outside the main gate, but not directly in front of it. Then just wait for someone to approach. It’s also best not to go in a large group; 2 to 4 seems to be fine. You’ll need to take 400 Bolivianos, plus a tip for your tour guide, say another 100-150 Bolivianos. Other than that, enjoy the guided ‘tour’ (but just don’t mention the word tour).

Came across your post on google when searching for San Pedro. What an awesome write up! I´m hoping to visit tomorrow with my boyfriend, luckily I read your post as i was handed the ´curiosity killed the cat´note and immediatly was able to avoid it!

Awesome account of your trip to La Paz and SanPedro. I am currently in LaPaz and want to see the inside of “Marching Powder”. If you can give me any info I would appreciate it. I have heard about a lot of scams going on lately. Thanks and again great article.

Hey Chris, my best advice is to go early (say 8:45am) on Saturday and stand across the road from the main gate; maybe up the road a little so it’s not too obvious. If someone comes directly from the prison gate, it’s usually a good deal. Just don’t agree to meet people away from the prison, especially with passport copies, money, etc. You should be able to go straight in. Try to go in a small group too (2-4 seems good). Hope that helps.

Hi! I hope to visit the prison while in La Paz early next year and appreciate your advice. You mentioned that you had to give your names and passports numbers to a guard. I guess I am being a little paranoid around what info you do and don’t give out in these situations…are you able to elaboration on the reasons for this and where to draw the line?

Hey Sarah, I guess that’s the thrill of it all. Knowing you shouldn’t do something (such as giving personal info to official people while blatantly breaking the law), but doing it anyway for the sake of adventure. I’d suggest you be careful with people outside the prison, but once you get to the entrance, just go with the flow and give the guards what they want. You clearly need to cooperate with someone on the outside in order to make it to the inside, but just have your wits about you. You want someone who’ll take you straight in, not someone who wants you to call later and meet you somewhere else. I think this comes down to going on the right day and standing out the front in full view of the guards. They’ll send someone to get you. Only go with 1 or 2 other people and get there earlier than everyone else. Hope that helps. Good luck; you won’t regret it (unless you get put in jail, but then that’s an even better story).

Great write up! I’m currently a few days away from La Paz, then im spending a few days there so my main goal while im there is to check out this prison. You didnt get frisked or checked at all for drugs when you were leaving tho?!

What a great story and very well-written!
I actually plan to be in La Paz some time in Feb 2013 and, after reading your story, this is a must-do! I’ve read the tips you have given other people so plan to follow them. Thanks!!!

I have just spent my lunch break reading this, my last lunch break at my long standing job that I am leaving tomorrow to travel South America…in wondering what the chances of a visit into the jail are like now days? If anyone knows, is still on this chat or reads this id love to be contacted :) your have a nack with words and I enjoyed your piece very much, thankyou!

hello, this is a very interesting post. I tried to do so 2 days ago and, as someone said, it is different now, they scared the **** out of me. I tried to take a photo and they threatened to break my camera. Wow. I would love to hear your story Trying to visit there again. :|